Harriet
by sherlockfanatic
Summary: Est. Johnlock with a daughter called Harriet. Harriet brings home a boy but Sherlock is less than impressed. In a universe where men can have children (I'm sure there's a word for it), SWEARING but mainly very fluffy. First Johnlock so please r/r :)


**A/N hello, just a few quick things**

**Leaver's ball is much like prom for americans and any alike.**

**I chose Harriet because John's sister is called Harriet (Hattie for short) as I'm unaware of any female names for Johnlock kids, but please message me if you know the given name for them**

**This is my first Johnlock fanfic ever so please do r/r :)**

**Oh and my lovely friend Amy gave me the idea with a few picture prompts and such**

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Harriet kicked open the prestigious black varnished door emblazoned with the infamous gold letters with little respect. She had in tow a tall, lanky boy with dirty blonde hair and the essence of an intellect. Harriet, now a little over seventeen, tightly grasped his hand and willed away the uncomfort obvious in the boy's body. She clambered up the flight of stairs and stopped by the frosted glass door that would lead the boy to his inevitable early death and he followed suit, standing a respectable distance away.

"You'll be fine. Dad will be okay with you, you'll just have to watch out for father: he's not very good with these situations." Harriet said, taking the other hand of the boy and pulling him closer, but still maintaining a healthy distance.

"Oh okay, right. Um, which one's which?" He avoided her eyes trying to conceal his embarrassment at the question. Harriet gave a slight chuckle. Despite the acceptance from general society, people still didn't know what to do or how to react when they came face to face with the reality. She had never been bullied per se for having two fathers, but people were still uncomfortable around their domestic stance.

"Dad's the one with mousy blonde hair and he'll most probably be wearing a jumper of some description. Father's the one with dark curly hair and really pale skin – that's where I get it from." She said, motioning to her cheeks which were almost translucent in their shade.

"Okay, but when you say I'll have to watch out for your father, in what ways do i have to 'watch out'?" His mind was running a good deal faster than usual, he had never met her parents before.

Harriet chuckled again, she was finding the whole thing rather amusing. She knew what an arsehole her father could be, but the side she knew was manageable and often entertaining. She had never seen an outsider's view looking in in such detail before and it was enlightening. The fear plastered across the boys face was pitying yet also amusing.

"Oh just small things, I'm making it seem far worse than it is. You'll be fine! Stop fidgeting." She pulled their hands down between their bodies, making their bodies lean closer to one another. She gave him a slight smirk before gently pressing her lips to his. She could hear her dad pottering around in the room behind the ominous frosted glass door, quietly clanging pots and pans. They broke apart after a few moments of isolated comfort and tipped their foreheads together, eyes still shut.

"Ready?" She whispered. She didn't hear a reply but felt his forehead shift and heard him take a heavy swallow.

She turned and twisted the handle to the door, opening it fully and stepping over the threshold into the womb-like warmth of the living room. Their hands had not broken and she gave him a slight tug into the room, sensing his inert desperation to both impress and to leave.

"Dad? Where's father?" Harriet called into the ajoining kitchen, knowing that John was making dinner in there.

"Uh...I think he's sleeping – we had a case all week and you know what he's like. Why?" John came shuffling out of the kitchen rubbing his hands with a tea towel. He stopped suddenly and paused the wringing of his hands within the material, spying the boy standing behind her and giving her a confused glare.

"Who's this, Hattie?" He said motioning to the boy.

"I'd much rather introduce him with father present, it's far easier." Hattie pulled the boy into the sitting room and finally let go of his hand, flopping down onto the work leather settee. The boy copied, shifted awkwardly for a few moments before placing his hand clasped in his lap.

"We'll wait until he wakes up , unless you want to wake him up." Hattie reasoned, talking to John over her shoulder from the settee. John stood slightly dumbfounded in the door way of the kitchen, confused and intrigued at what his daughter had to say. He couldn't wait for Sherlock to wake up to find out what was going on, neither did he want a stranger to stay so long in his house without knowing his name or have his daughter sit so close to him.

"SHERLOCK. SHERLOCK, GET DOWN HERE, HATTIE WANTS TO TALK TO US ABOUT SOMETHING." John yelled up the staircase. A slight grumble could be heard as well as the tell tale creak of floorboards. A few moments of tense silence later and the familiar rythym of Sherlock's feet pounding on the stairs heightened the boy's heart rate. Hattie remained indifferent to the situation, choosing to pick at a loose thread on her jumper instead of watching the doorframe intently, like the others in the room.

"Well then, what's the matter?" Sherlock said brightly, clad in long dark trousers and a crisp, plainly striped shirt. His sharp blue eyes fell upon his daughter and the stranger sitting next to her, meticulously scanning them over their now standing bodies. The boy was tall, similar hair colour to John's, green eyes, small facial features, averagely youthful dress sense and had a hand outstretched in signal for a greeting. Sherlock simply looked at the gesture not wanting to accept it or reciprocate.

"Hello, I'm Tom Reynolds. I go to school with Harriet." The boy, or Tom as he had said, was flushing a light pinkish hue. His hand had been outstretched for a time period lightly longer than socially acceptable and everyone in the room knew it. John managed to rescue the situation by cutting Sherlock's view and taking the hand in earnest, shaking just a little too vigorously.

"I'm Hattie's dad, call me John though. This is Sherlock, Hattie's father." Sherlock was fiddling with his phone now, not listening to the conversation whatsoever. Hattie gave a sigh of relief. She had been dreading that both her parents would take a disapproving stance against Tom, but now that she had at least some acceptance from John the task they had come here to do didn't seem so daunting.

"Have you got some work to be getting on with then? That's why you're here isn't it?" He said, speaking to Tom. Hattie intervened.

"Well, uh, actually that's why I wanted both of you down here" Sherlock snapped his head up from the screen of his phone.

"Tom's taking me to the leaver's ball and we've been going out for the past three months or so...just thought you might like to know." Hattie clenched Tom's hand tightly after the sentences spewed from her mouth. She maintained her steely resolve still, keeping eye contact with John and watching every thought cross his mind. First confusion, then disbelief, then acceptance and finally glee. She hadn't bothered to look in Sherlock's direction, a rather large mistake.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said quietly, scoffing under his breath.

"Excuse me?" Hattie asked incredulously.

"I said don't be ridiculous, Harriet. Look at him."

"I have father, what's wrong with him?" She spat out, her blood beginning to simmer.

"Well, to start, the calluses on his palms-"

"Don't start, Sherlock." John said quietly, sensing his daughters overriding anger.

"-are consistent with a frequent action. Judging by the shape and location, he either plays the trombone for a professional orchestra or is a serial masturbator-"

"Oh Christ." John cursed, smacking his hand to his forehead while Tom blushed madly and inspected at his palm with confusion. Hattie's usually delicate face was hardened with emotion and her eyes had fire behind the irises.

"-the latter is far more likely considering the age and temperament. The angle of the calluses suggest that it is performed usually in a horizontal position: lying down in bed then. Then there's the chapped lips, most probably from nervous chewing, but the edges are cracked with faint chalk dust: an asthsma inhaler then. His shirt has been laundered too many times, the cuffs and collar ragged from the detergent it's been subjected to. Can't possibly be his considering the time frame for it to be worn and laundered to this state, so it's from a brother or a father. The hair cut – cheap, the shoes – cheap, the clothing – cheap. Everything that boy owns is cheap. He can't even get the emotional satisfaction from the people around him so he resorts to masturbation. He's lazy, he's not all that good looking and he is not nearly as intelligent as you. What is the point of spending an evening that is important to your education and to you with someone like th-"

"STOP. STOP RIGHT NOW." Harriet burst, the tidal wave of anger transforming into a tsunami. Tom stood in offended shock and awe with a deep red poisoning his high cheeks.

"He isn't worth you, Harriet. Can't you see that? He isn't worth-"

"I CANNOT BELIEVE WHAT YOU JUST DID. HOW DARE YOU DO THAT TO HIM? HE ONLY CAME HERE TODAY BECAUSE HE WANTED TO ASK YOU, AS A MATTER OF CHIVALRY, IF HE COULD TAKE ME TO THE LEAVER'S BALL. HE WAS ENOUGH OF A GENTLEMAN TO DO THAT AND YOU DECIDED TO RIP THE SHIT OUT OF HIM FOR NO REASON!"

Sherlock was taken aback by Harriet's reaction. It seemed he had not read her correctly.

"I'll just be going, thankyou for having me John." Tom said quietly, letting go of Hattie's hand and stalked to the door.

She made no attempt to stop him as she watched his back disappear down the stairs and heard the snap and clunk of the big black door. Harriet felt it difficult to swallow as she turned to her father and looked at him, willing her eyes not to show her hurt. Sherlock was shocked at her expression, he had never seen such anger from his daughter, and he was, although he would never admit it, scared. Her jaw was clenched to the point that it became painful behind her earlobes yet her hands were worryingly loose, her fingers bound together but not purposefully staying together. Her nostrils flared at each inhale and she could feel her eyes bloodshot, preparing for the inevitable salty tears.

"I have never felt ashamed of you. I have never felt ashamed of anyone as I do of you now." Her voice was steady and so very quiet. John looked from Sherlock to Hattie, terrified of what could occur from this moment.

"I chose Tom for a very specific reason: he makes me relatively happy. We have fun together, and I trust him fully. He came here to ask you for your permission as a gesture. IT WAS NOT FOR YOU TO NIT PICK AT EVERY ASPECT OF HIS LIFE. IT WAS NOT TO GIVE YOU AN OUTLET TO SHOW OFF AND HUMILIATE HIM. IT WAS NOT AN IVITATION FOR YOU TO QUESTION MY JUDGEMENT. THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I HAVE EVER FELT ANYTHING MORE THAN FRIENDSHIP WITH ANYONE AND YOU HAVE CRUSHED THAT OPPURTUNITY PURPOSEFULLY AND ACTED LIKE A LITTLE BITCH!" The tears had begun leaking from the corners of her eyes and John felt his chest clench at the sight of his daughter. Sherlock was standing, open mouthed and shocked at the controlled rage that was evident in Hattie. He had only ever seen such contained anger before, in none other than Moriarty and that scared him even further.

"I WILL STILL BE ATTENDING THE BALL WITH TOM, DESPITE YOUR FUCKING 'BRILLIANT' CONCLUSIONS – THAT IS IF HE IS WILLING TO STILL TAKE ME. I HAVE NEVER DISSAPOINTED YOU, FATHER, BUT I MIGHT HAVE TO START IF THIS IS HOW YOU TREAT THE MEN IN MY LIFE." And with that she stormed out of the room, choking back a sob as she clambered up the stairs to her bedroom.

"You twat." John uttered. "Why can't you just see when you've taken it too far? Harriet trusted us enough to let the boy talk to us and you decided to act like a dick!"

"I was preventing-" Sherlock began to speak slowly, staring at the floor.

"What could you have possibly been preventing, Sherlock? Hmmm? The trust our daughter has in us? Her happiness for the night of the ball? WHAT SHERLOCK?"

"I...I didn't think he was good enough..."

"That is not our place to decide Sherlock, it is her right and her right alone to decide who she is good enough for. And even if you did think he wasn't good enough for her, you did not go the right way about making your view known." John looked at Sherlock with his jaw slightly clenched.

Sherlock's face was completely blank, no emotion sweeping across his angular face and icy eyes. Neither of them had seen Hattie like this. She had always taken to Sherlock's personality yet keeping the more human aspects of John. As a child she never lashed out physically but used her higher intellect to stun and awe, something Sherlock had always been infinitely proud of. Reaching into adolescence Hattie became far more human than Sherlock, displaying far more emotions than he ever did in his youth. She kept the perfect balance of intellect and emotion that allowed her to excel at anything she chose and to charm whoever she had to. She was the perfect child of the two halves: she deserved as much as she could. That boy was not an iota of what she could achieve.

"She's being far too unreasonable. You can't think that he was at all-"

"Sherlock. You are in the wrong. Accept that and go apologise." John said through gritted teeth, pointing at the staircase leading to Hattie's bedroom. Sherlock stood there, clenching his hands by his sides realising his mistake but certainly not wanting to admit it. He blinked a few times at the ravage John and stalked up the stairs two at time.

He could hear the faint staggered breaths of Harriet's sobs behind the door and he felt his resolve shatter. He had really hurt her; he had never seen her cry with emotional anguish only with physical pain. Her sobs were far different to when she had tripped and fallen or when she had broken her arm. They were far more ragged, yet slow and dragged. Her usual sobs were far more panicked and often packed a large volume. He rested his head against the door and willed his pride to disappear for long enough to apologise to her.

"Harriet." He said quietly knocking on the door hesitantly.

"Fuck off Father." She spat out.

He felt his chest clench at her harsh language. Despite his qualms, he pushed open the door to see her sitting on the edge of her bed. He stood in the doorframe uncomfortably shifting from one foot to another and sticking his hands deep within his pockets.

"Get out."

"No, I need to talk to-"

"I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT." She snapped her face whirling round to his.

Her eyes were bloodshot and a red blush was swept across razor sharp cheekbones. Her lower lip was ragged from chewing and a thin sheen of saliva coated the ravaged skin. Her eyes were suddenly filled with the anger that scared Sherlock so much but maintained his resolve, planting his feet on carpet of her door. He didn't reply and she simply returned to looking at the floor, letting the tears stream down her face. He refused to look at her, for his exterior to be cracked by his overwhelming emotions. He instead looked around the room he had so frequented in her early youth, now with magazine clippings plastered across the back wall and posters littering the sides. The trinkets that Mrs Hudson and Mycroft had bought for Harriet's christening still sat along the windowsills. The long nights he had spent in this room, watching over the dainty crib to find the cherubic face of his daughter sleeping happily in the warmth of her blanket. He would fiddle with the china trinkets along her windowsill, poised for action in case she woke crying. The insomnia that was brought by a case was no longer so lonesome with the company of Harriet, even if she was sleeping. He found that if his body was screaming for rest, simply holding the sleeping child in his arms was enough to calm his aching limbs and soothe his mind. He never showed such affection in the company of others, choosing to show his affections to her in solitude. The more she grew the more she mirrored him. His intellect was replicated on her, his dark hair an image of hers, her cheeks had the same sharp ridge as his own. But the eyes, the eyes were John's and that made her far more unique than anyone he had come across in his time. The walls of her room had been a cream shade then, now they were a icy blue, matching his irises with precision – an unintentional coincidence.

She looked up to him suddenly, her eyes narrowed with anger and suspicion at her Father. He hated her stare which was much like his own, and the worry in the pit of his stomach swelled.

"Since you're not going to leave: What do you want?" She said very quietly, anger laced within her usually sweet voice.

"I...uh...wanted to apologise for my behaviour. It was very rude." He stammered out, still refusing to look her in the eye.

"Brilliant, now kindly fuck off." He winced again at her crude language and the uncovered sarcasm dripping from her voice. His barricade began to crumble. He moved towards the bed, perching next to her on the lilac covers. He continued to stare at the floor for a few moments before opening his mouth and shutting it again, trying to find the correct words for this delicate situation.

"Harriet, I really am truly sorry for what I said, but you must under-"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY ROOM FATHER." She screeched, not moving from her position. He stared at her in silent shock. She had never lashed out so emotionally at him or John. Dazed by her retaliation he stood and walked out of the room and down the stairs to find an anxious John wringing his hands.

"What the hell happened up there?" John said, grasping Sherlock's forearm as he attempted to walk to his sitting chair.

"I...she...she's never been like this before, I don't know what to do." Sherlock said honestly, looking at John with the emotion he had been holing up in her room.

"Did you apologise properly?"

"Yes, twice in fact. She started screaming at me the second time."

"Well you must have done something for her to scream at you."

"She cut me off before I could tell her anything valuable-"

"Oh god, what exactly do you class as valuable from this Sherlock?

"I was going to tell her that I was doing it in her best interests."

"Oh for fuck's sake. How do you think that this is an opportune time to lecture her?"

"She has to learn-"

"Yes, but definitely not now when she's hysterical, Sherlock!" Sherlock, who had stood rigid for the whole conversation suddenly deflated with the realisation of his mistake. John gave him a few moments to let it sink in.

"Should I go apologise again then?"

"No you've stirred her up too much for now, give her a while to calm down. I'll go up there and see if I can calm her down a bit." John said, making his way up the stairs to the familiar white door with a gold 'H' emblazoned in the centre. He could hear her sniffles from under the crack of her door and tapped gently on the wood.

"Hattie? Can I come in?" He waited patiently for a reply. He didn't receive one, but nor did he hear her deny entry so he inhaled deeply and pushed on the handle.

She was sat on the edge of her bed, the lilac sheets of her bedspread fisted in a palm and another clutching a tissue. She tried to wipe furiously at the streams down her cheeks but the tracks were still visible on her porcelain skin. John almost ran to sit on the bed beside her, wrapping his arm round her shoulder and pulling her close. The sobs that she had been holding back suddenly came choking out and she rested her head on her dad's shoulder, letting him gently rub her shoulder and shush her.

John's chest clenched with each heartfelt cry of his daughter and all he could do for those heart wrenching moments was hold her. He comforted her like he had when she was small, remembering the first few months of colic induced sleepless nights where her cries were the most damaging thing to his soul. Every wail from that sweet little mouth had grabbed at his gut, and all he could do was hold her until she calmed to sleep. The times they had been forced to accident and emergency after falling from a tree or a misfortune on the netball courts, her pain ridden wails would echo throughout his mind. Now, nearly eighteen, her cries still had the same affect on him: debilitating. He held Hattie until her sobs became hiccups and her tissue was sodden with her tears. He dipped his head slightly and pulled the curtain of her long, black hair behind her ear giving her a small smile. She looked exhausted, her eyes were puffy and bright red, contrasting terribly to the ice pale skin of her jaw. The tear tracks were still evident on her sweet face despite her best efforts. Her hiccups were making her body shake each time her body tried to take another sob. John rubbed her back soothingly, alternating between 'it's alright' and shushing her.

"I just *hiccup* don't understand *hiccup* why he had to be *hiccup* such a dick! *hiccup*" She said quietly, pulling her tear streaked hair into a bun.

"He thought that you were too good for Tom-"

"I gathered *hiccup* that. I just don't *hiccup* understand why he had *hiccup* to say it like he did."

"Well, unfortunately your father's just built like that. He doesn't know how to show what he's feeling sometimes, but still he really shouldn't have done it like that. "

"It's the fact that *hiccup* Tom is my first *hiccup* boyfriend and I just wanted it to be *hiccup* perfect and *hiccup* you should get off on the right foot. And I really *hiccup* want to go to the *hiccup* leaver's ball with him. I've picked a *hiccup* dress and everything *hiccup* that coordinates with what *hiccup* Tom's wearing and I just...I really like him and now I feel like *hiccup* I'm letting you down *hiccup* if I go with him." She continued to stare at the floor, quietly hiccupping every now and then. John felt a pang in his chest, a little overwhelmed at how much she valued his opinion.

"Oh Hattie, look at me." Her head snapped round to look at him, her eyes so much like his. "You could never disappoint me or your Father. Ignore what the tosser says, he's just being a little territorial over you. This is going to sound a bit soft, but we will support you in whatever you do, despite what his majesty may appear to think. Okay?" She nodded slowly, picking up the pace when her mind fully clicked into place.

"You've got yourself rather worked up haven't you?" John said with a slight chuckle. She smiled gingerly and tucked a loose thread of hair behind her ear. He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and stood up, smoothing out her bed sheets as he went.

"Shall I send your father up?" John said somewhat hesitantly wanting to avoid another hysterical outburst.

She took a moment to blow her nose and nodded a definite once, a gesture she had picked up from her ex-military dad. He smiled to himself as he bounded down the stairs, delighted that some form of emotional decorum had been established in the house and the obvious display of his daughter's parenthood. He loved it when she showed the traits of her parents, whether it was a uniform nod of the head or palms laid flat together and placed underneath the chin whilst deep in thought. She was the perfect combination of them both yet still managed to be an entirely new being.

He found Sherlock crouching in his chair, palms pressed together under his angular chin his eyes far off.

"Sherlock." No response.

"SHERLOCK." His palms flew from his chin and he looked up at John with innocent confusion.

"She said she'd talk to you. She thinks that if she did go to the leaver's ball with Tom then we'd both be disappointed with her-"

"Well I will be-

"Sherlock." John's tone becoming dangerous.

"What? You always say that honesty is the best policy-"

"Yes, but not when it comes to your hormonal teenage daughter whose boyfriend she believes she's in love with, just got the shit ripped out of him by her father. She's given you another chance but so help me God if you fuck it up again I will not help you get out of it." John murmured, leaning over Sherlock slightly.

Sherlock stood up languidly, trying to hide his glee that he had a second chance. He smoothed down his cotton shirt and straightened his trousers ever so slightly before bolting up the stairs to the white door that concealed Hattie. He peered through the crack to see her brushing her hair in the French cream vanity. Her eyes were still puffy but perhaps a little less bloodshot than their last encounter. A slight buzz from her handbag beneath the chair seemed to go unnoticed by her and Sherlock decided to make his move.

"Your phone's just gone off." He said, side stepping into the room and pointing at the leather bundle sitting behind her feet.

She glanced down and pulled her bag out with her foot, bending down to retrieve the sleek Blackberry into her palm. A few clicks and a smile began to spread across her face as she went on reading, her eyes darting from left to right.

"Who's it from?" Sherlock asked, walking over to the vanity with his characteristic long strides.

"A friend, she made a joke about a TV show we watch." She replied coolly, angling the phone's screen away from his intrigued gaze. He hummed in response, impressed with the lying capabilities she possessed almost as good as his own. He steeled himself for what he needed to say.

"Look, Harriet. I really shouldn't have said all those things to Tom and embarrassed you like that. I'm sure he's a perfectly nice bloke and I'm sorry that I didn't give him a chance. I apologise for making you feel inadequate and that your judgement was compromised: I should have thought about what I was going to say before I said it. I really do apologise for everything." He reeled off, stringing the readily prepared sentences in his mind to create the perfect apology.

She had watched him intently during his little speech, the anger and adrenaline slowly dissipating throughout her body as she felt the guilt radiate off her father. His deep baritone voice made it all that more sincere and stood up, giving him a quick peck on the cheek once he had finished.

He felt the damp ghost of her tears streak across his face as she leant up and pressed a quick kiss to his translucent cheek.

"It's alright, Father." Giving him a trademark small smile and glided out of the room. He watched her leave, indulging in a smirk himself before following her out the door trying not to question what had made her forgiveness so swift. He had anticipated at least a week of grovelling before she was comfortable around him again.

He opened the door of her room fully and found John leaning against the doorframe, hands clasped behind his back.

"Nicely done Holmes, if I dare say so myself."

"It was simply logical."

"Jesus, I'd never thought I see the day Sherlock Holmes apologised three times in one day."

"Don't be so melodramatic John, really."

"Still, well done. It was a good apology." John stepped closer and Sherlock turned to face him. John stood up very slightly and gave him a quick peck on the lips, pulling back suddenly when he heard Hattie's voice trail from the very bottom of the staircase, obviously making a phone call. He and Sherlock listened intently, trying to decipher her hushed tones and rapid language. A name was finally uttered in the shape of 'Tom' and the men both exhaled slightly. Hattie's tone seemed to be an excited hush and a joyful 'yes of course I still want to go with you' echoed up the mahogany banister. Sherlock smiled to John, taking his hand and clasping it tight within his own. A wailing bleeping sound began to emanate from under the frosted glass door and John bounded down the stairs to switch it off, letting go of Sherlock's hand as he raced to turn off the timer.

"HATTIE, SUPPER'S READY." John yelled down the staircase to his elated daughter then peered up to his other half, grinning at him a little manically. Sherlock smirked and stalked down the stairs, watching Hattie race to the kitchen and unintentionally slam the frosted glass door. He pulled John closer to his own torso and leant down for a more sufficient kiss and they broke apart grinning, staying close together for a few extra moments. The door suddenly flew open and they sprang apart quickly to see Hattie stood, hands on hips and giving her parents a look of un-amusement.

"I thought you said supper was ready."

THE END J


End file.
